


The Colleague Circumvention

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 10:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: For Rosenoble9, for the prompt: “So what if they're on a stake out and Sam and Andy are supposed to meet them to take over, but things have escalated for them during the course of the stakeout and just as one of them is about to make the move...Sam and Andy arrive.”





	The Colleague Circumvention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Robin/gifts).



> For Rosenoble9, for the prompt: “So what if they're on a stake out and Sam and Andy are supposed to meet them to take over, but things have escalated for them during the course of the stakeout and just as one of them is about to make the move...Sam and Andy arrive.”

Strike opened the coffee flask and peered into it. Robin giggled. “Still empty?” She pulled her coat more tightly around herself. The old Land Rover was not warm. Or even particularly windproof.

Strike sighed. “Still empty. And we’re out of biscuits,” he added gloomily. He gazed out at the dark street, silent and deserted as it had been all night so far. “This has been a right royal waste of time.”

“That’s your lack of caffeine talking,” Robin said fondly. “We always knew this was an outside chance. It might not be their base of operations at all. Or they just might not be doing a deal tonight. Or maybe Sam and Andy will have more luck.” She glanced at her watch, angling her wrist as she squinted at the hands in the dark. “They’ll be here soon.”

Strike leaned back in his seat, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his neck. The temperature had dropped noticeably in the last couple of hours. Robin had pulled her big gloves on over the fingerless gloves she liked to drive in. Strike shoved his hands into his pockets.

They sat for a long time, quiet. They passed much of their stake-out time this way. Sometimes they would chat in low voices, one or other of them saying something out of the blue that would spark a conversation, an exchange of ideas. But both were equally happy to sit quietly in the black-shadowed night, at ease in one another’s company.

Robin yawned a little and rested her head against the window. Strike glanced across at her. “Have a kip, if you want,” he said. “I’m feeling quite awake for now.” They both understood the ebb and flow of a night shift, the way you could feel alert one minute and overcome by fatigue the next. Robin nodded and closed her eyes.

Strike scanned the street again. There was no movement. An hour ago a cat had slunk past, briefly giving them something to watch, but apart from that, nothing. He reflected that watching paint dry might literally be more interesting.

A soft snore emanated from the slumbering form next to him. He smiled fondly and glanced across. Robin had slithered down the window a little, her face relaxed, her lips parted. In the dim light from the nearest streetlamp, her hair looked dark, her face half in shadow. She looked peaceful, beautiful.

Strike sighed a little. In the deep of the night, when they sat quietly together like this, taking turns to rest, at peace, the rest of the world far away, it seemed so simple. It would be easy just to slide across the lines he had carefully drawn around their relationship. To allow the barriers to dissolve, to allow his heart to reach for hers and find the comfort it craved in her warmth. It was only in the cold light of day, with the pressures of work, of running a business together, the intrusion of other people and their thoughts and expectations, that it became complicated. Unfortunately, that was real life, and this, this ink-black oasis of peace, was a dreamscape he was so rarely able to inhabit.

He watched her sleep and allowed his imagination to drift, to imagine her in his bed. Not in a sexual way, although he wouldn’t deny those thoughts crossed his mind sometimes - what red-blooded male wouldn’t occasionally succumb to such wonderings, faced with her warmth, her curves, her smile - but like this, soft and vulnerable. He imagined her curled asleep, hair across his pillow, while he wrapped an arm around her from behind and kept her safe while she slept. He imaged her waking, velvet and gold in the morning light, smiling and pressing her warmth to his, her morning smile and sleep-heavy gaze for him alone.

But those were things, parts of her, he couldn’t have. They weren’t his to take, weren’t his even to want. What he could have was the knowledge that he was watching over her now, while she slept trustingly on an unfamiliar street in a not-great neighbourhood, safe knowing he was keeping guard. That he could do.

Time passed, nebulous in the dark. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. Robin snorted, making Strike jump, and woke. She came to slowly and gave him a soft smile, a fleeting shadow of the morning Robin of his imagination. “Sorry, was I snoring?” she mumbled.

“Only a bit,” he teased her, and she flushed a little, sitting up, wiping a hand across her mouth. “Now I’m feeling the lack of coffee, too. I’ll make two flasks next time.”

She shivered, properly cold now. Without thinking, Strike extended an arm. “C’mere,” he said, and she scooted along the seat and tucked herself under his arm, her head on his shoulder. He dropped his hand gently around her upper arm, pulling her close. It was something they’d never do in the office, in the hours of daylight, but here in the dark it felt natural.

Robin relaxed against him, still sleepy, still slightly shivery. He could smell her hair, the delicate scent of her perfume, hours old now but still fresh somehow. He realised his hand was rubbing gently up and down her arm where he was almost hugging her.

“You’re warm,” Robin murmured. For a moment, Strike allowed himself to drift, allowed himself to imagine that this was their normality, that he could hold her and breathe her and keep her warm, kiss her...

She glanced up at him just as he thought it, as though she had heard him, and their eyes met in the gloom. Strike’s heart skipped a beat. He could almost taste her on his lips, the thought of it was so real.

A knock on the passenger side window pulled him from his reverie and made Robin jump and scowl a little. “Jeez, detectives are so good at sneaking up on people,” she muttered. Strike grinned at her, pulling his arm free and opening the door. Barclay and Andy stood on the pavement, wrapped up in coats and scarves and hats, armed with flasks and biscuits of their own. Strike and Robin climbed out of the Land Rover, stretching cramped muscles, cold.

Their exchange was minimal, conducted in low voices. There was no need to attract attention. The details had been worked out during the day. Robin handed Barclay the spare keys to the Land Rover, and she and Strike set off for the BMW which was parked a few streets away. They’d retrieve the Land Rover tomorrow.

They strolled side by side, as they had so often done on London’s streets, their normal quiet camaraderie restored, each looking forward to getting home and getting some sleep. Strike lit a cigarette and smoked as they walked.

 

 


End file.
